Smoke
by katydidit
Summary: The haunted look in the victim’s dark eyes followed him around all day, chasing him to this filthy bar, where he hoped to hide from their gaze in the dim lighting and the smoky haze. More EO than Bottle


Disclaimer: Dick Wolf has got to be richer than God right now. I am not. Let's do the math, shall we?

AN: Let me explain. This was inspired by my own fic (can you say narcissistic?): Bottle. I've been wondering all week, what Stabler would wax angsty about over a bottle of beer. Of course, I've extended the scene a little bit, and added more…EO than in Bottle. I don't know which ending I prefer, so why don't you let me know? (See how I find a way to _subtly_ beg people to read my other stuff and to review? grin) They're completely unrelated, though—each one takes place in a separate universe from the other. Make sense? Also, for the non-mythology buffs who might be foncused (or confused), the River Lethe is a river in Greek mythology. As the dead traveled to the underworld, they drank from it. It made them forget all that they had done and suffered while they were alive. I thought it fit.

**Smoke**

Detective Elliot Stabler slumped over the bar, nursing a bottle of dark beer. The case today was why he hated the job sometimes. The haunted look in the victim's dark eyes followed him around all day, chasing him to this filthy bar, where he hoped to hide from their gaze in the dim lighting and the smoky haze. He took a large swig, squinting across the counter at his figure reflected in the mirror. _What are you doing, Stabler?_ He thought, eyeing the bottle in front of him. _You shouldn't be here_. What did that mean? Was it the bar that he didn't belong in, or the career he'd chosen?

Here he was, alone, in a run-down bar, fifteen miles from his empty house. This job had taken everything from him. His wife, his kids, his happiness—up in smoke. All that existed for him now was a morbid parade of victims, all bleeding, trembling—if not dead. They were pursued in a never ending race by the line of perps, all laughing smugly and getting free. He took another drink of his River Lethe and they were temporarily drowned. His mind went from work to home. How long ago had it been that Kathy met him in the hallway as he returned home late one night? She'd thrust papers at his chest as she fumbled with her suitcase. Divorce papers. She'd filed for divorce. He'd stopped her in the hallway, demanding to know what was going on. She'd then proceeded to scream at him for the better part of an hour—things that had obviously been stewing beneath the surface for years. He'd been pushing her away, she accused. Ignoring him in favor of his cases. What was worse was that she'd accused him of having an affair with his partner. Even once he'd convinced her that he'd never do such a thing, she maintained that he was in love with her.

Was it true? Was he in love with his partner—his best friend? It was preposterous—completely unfounded. Sure, he'd often found himself in situations where he would gladly sacrifice himself to save her, but that was normal, wasn't it? Despite their constant bickering, he knew that Munch or Fin would say the same thing about each other. Of course he felt something for her, but he'd always assumed it was normal affection—a reflex of sorts, stemming from the fact that she was a female in a typically male, dangerous job. It was instinctual, his desire to protect her, nothing more. The connection they seemed to have when working on a case—as though they were merely extensions of each other—that was good partnership, right? She'd begin a sentence, he'd finish. He'd realize he needed a file; she'd have it already waiting. It wasn't love.

Beautiful. Real class. A girl had been raped and beaten in a public place without a single witness, and here he was, acting like a schoolgirl. I love her, I love her not.

The back of his neck prickled, and he sighed deeply. She'd walked in the door, and, judging by the hairs on his arms that had suddenly jerked to attention, she was looking directly at him. Sure enough, she headed over and slid onto the stool next to him.

"Thought I'd find you here," she said quietly. He shrugged, draining the last of his beer and gesturing for another. "El, what are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" he answered, sucking down a large mouthful of the bitter drink.

"How many have you had?" She didn't allow it to enter her voice, but he knew—because he knew _her_—that she was thinking about her mother, remembering. It only made him feel worse about the whole day—made him need the oblivion that much more.

"I don't know," he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Twelve, two… Does it matter?"

She made a small noise of understanding and turned to look at him. "It's about the girl?"

His hand stopped halfway to his mouth, but he slammed the bottle down onto the counter, making the woman next to him flinch.

"Liv, she was sixteen! That's younger than Kathleen—practically the same age as Elizabeth! She was in a library! One of the quietest places in this godforsaken city, and no one heard a damn thing. And we can't find the bastard who did it because he set whatever DNA he left inside her aflame! He left the girl's life in ruins, and we can't even tell her that he's going to be ass-raped in a prison cell. It's about a damn bit more than the girl!"

"We'll find him, El," she insisted, taking the bottle from his hand. "We will."

He shook his head, not bothering to reach for the bottle. She'd never give it to him, he knew. She was stubborn, protective, and determined—and there was no way she'd let him get drunk in front of her.

He looked over at her. She was watching him, her large dark eyes flashing with concern, but also with pained memories. She'd also pulled her lower lip into her mouth and worried it between her teeth absently, obviously thinking something about him. He hadn't realized until this moment how gorgeous she truly was.

"'Livia," he said slowly. "You're beautiful." She laughed, but it sounded hollow, and she stood, not looking at him.

"Okay, Partner," she said, forced cheeriness masking her true feelings. "I'm taking you home." She slid her arm under his, to help him to his feet.

"I'm not drunk," he said, knocking her hands gently away. She rolled her eyes and put money down on the counter, to cover his tab.

"Come on, El. I'll drive you home."

"Listen to me, Liv," he insisted, as she guided him out of the bar. "You're strong, capable, smart and independent. Not to mention the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He slid out of her grasp once more, pushing her lightly against the stone front of the bar. Her hands immediately came up to his chest, keeping him at a distance.

"El, cut it out. Just let me drive you home."

"One minute," he murmured, lowering his head to meet her lips. She froze for a moment, as though stunned, before pushing him off and stalking a few feet away, arms crossed protectively in front of her. The faces of every one of the predators flashed in front of his eyes. He was no better than they were—taking what he wanted without even wondering if she wanted it too. Dammit.

"Olivia," he called—she was already uncomfortable-to call her Liv would be to take one more step too close right now. "I'm sorry. I don't know…It won't happen again. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, reaching up to harshly wipe her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Why don't I get you home now? Get in the car."

What was going on here? His partner never cried—the closest to tears he'd ever seen her was when she realized that the mouthful of delicious caffeine she'd expected to find in the coffee maker at work had been brewed by none other than Munch. He'd made her cry. This was unbelievable. He took a step forward, unsure of how to approach this.

"Liv…" he began, but she walked past him to her car.

"Get in the car, El," she ordered quietly. She didn't look at him as he opened the passenger side door and fastened his seatbelt, or even for the first few miles. Finally, she acknowledged his stare, looking pained but concerned. "You feel okay? Need me to stop the car?"

"I'm not going to throw up in your car, Liv," Elliot said, not taking his eyes off of her. "I'm not going to throw up at all, because I'm not drunk." She made a gesture of defeat, and the ride was silent for a few more minutes. He had to break it—awkward silences had no place between partners. "Liv, what's in your head right now?"

She scoffed, glancing at him one more time. "What?"

"What's the problem? What are you thinking?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" she muttered. He didn't answer, watching her steadily. He knew exactly when he got to her, because her shoulders tensed and an air of exasperation formed around her. "El, don't even try your whole 'Detective Steamroller' thing with me. I've seen it a thousand times. I'm not some suspect you can interrogate whenever you want." She had a point. He wasn't being fair. Reluctantly, he looked away from her, out the window. If she wanted to pretend that he hadn't done anything, his pressing her on the issue would just piss her off. A few more minutes, and he heard her sigh disgustedly. "What the hell. You probably won't remember any of this tomorrow, anyway."

Victory. He looked expectantly at her, waiting for her to continue speaking. She kept her eyes straight ahead, as though she thought that, if she looked at him, she wouldn't be able to say what she was going to say.

"El, the problem is that I've wanted that for years," she said quietly. The air in the car settled down around them, almost tangible. Finally, Olivia sighed and reached out to turn on the radio. He grabbed her hand as her fingers closed around the knob. You couldn't drop that little tidbit and close the case. It wasn't right. As though she read his mind, Olivia jerked her hand away and looked over at him. Their gazes met and melded into one, taking up the extra space in the car. Suddenly, the smokescreen that Olivia used to obscure her emotions dissipated, and he understood her tears. She'd finally gotten what she'd wanted, but it took what she assumed to be too much beer for her to get it. Like so many other things, alcohol had ruined that for her tonight.

She tore her eyes away, parking the car. "You're here," she said quietly. He didn't open the door right away, but took her hand once more, pressing his lips to her smooth warm skin. As expected, his partner's hand disappeared through his own as though it were smoke, coming to land on her steering wheel.

"Liv, look at me," he whispered, almost pleading with her. Why was it so important to him? After a pause, she did. Her eyes were glittering again, but neither of them acknowledged the tears this time, to preserve her pride. "I'm not drunk. I never was. I was still working on my first beer when you came in. Everything I said tonight, I meant. Everything you said, I'm going to remember tomorrow."

"I don't know whether that makes me feel better or worse," Olivia said with a sad little shrug, looking down at the steering wheel. "I'll see you tomorrow, El."

He nodded and finally left the warmth of her presence, for the cold emptiness of his house. Something had changed tonight—of that much, he was certain.

What he didn't know was whether it was a good thing.


End file.
